I love yard sales.
There's something about the way people set out the junk they have smelled for years and then try to coax you into buying it — all the while with these longing looks, like they really don't want to give anything up.
"When I bought that it was really expensive," a lady snaps at me when I try to bargain for her six-bowl set.
While driving the streets of Tampa Bay last weekend, looking for furniture and trinkets for my new house, I caught a glimpse of what Floridians discard: vintage sofas from the hippie era, antique cheese graters, broken frames of nautical art, Jimmy Buffett's bore of an autobiography.
It got me thinking about how I seem to discard cities in much the same way Tampa Bay residents throw out wicker furniture.
Des Moines, Iowa? Too heavy to move. New Haven, Connecticut? Doesn't go with the wallpaper. Mesa, Arizona? The dog peed on both sides of that mattress.
It was not that I didn't like those cities — and that lady really did love her crappy kiln-fired bowls — they just weren't important enough at the time to take with me to college or a new job.
Moving has been one of the constants in my life. I went to six different schools growing up and even switched colleges halfway through my degree.
My friends have said I'm like a never-ending Where's Waldo? adventure. They hesitate to buy plane tickets in advance, fearing I might have skipped across the country before they ever get their bags checked.
Which is why it is so amazing I'm back in one of the places where I already spent almost half my life. Wasn't it just yesterday when I bought my first five-subject notebook and started writing down random thoughts during thunderstorms, staring out the windows of Grandma's southside St. Petersburg home?
So what could have made this vagabond return?
My 83-year-old grandmother needed somebody close to her. She didn't ask, I just knew. So one month ago, with no job prospects or a place to live, I packed up my 1996 Geo Prism and decided to add 3,000 more miles to its already bursting 214,000-mile speedometer to make a new home here.
Incredibly enough, I made it. I only got pulled over once in Texas!
Admittedly, I didn't know what to expect. I had always wanted to return to Florida when I was in my golden years, but never thought I'd move before learning how to shuffleboard.
The area has changed a lot since those days when my brother and I would ride our bicycles up and down the neighborhood streets, lifting up manholes and venturing into the sewers, or finding a way into abandoned houses.
Now all the neighborhoods have names proclaimed by big, colorful signs. Many have been recognized for their historic value. Of course, there are more condos. And now I hear even shuffleboard has gotten cool.
I remember when the Dali Museum was just a ramshackle house with some grotesque wax re-creations inside. Now it attracts thousands of tourists a year.
I'm rediscovering my home again, trinket by trinket, yard by yard, and I'm coming to a few stunning conclusions.
Like, why the hell did I ever leave?!
Tampa Bay has everything I want in a city: diversity (not quite Miami, but not Idaho either), clean air (the sea breezes take it all up to Canada), some semblance of public transportation (hey, try getting around in Detroit without a car) and, of course, the Gulf (it's like bathwater).
Sure, it is not one of America's meccas like Seattle or Boston, but then again, I could never afford to live in a mecca. I can afford to live here, at least for the time being.
But, despite what the Chamber of Commerce might tell you, museums and trolleys do not make a livable city.
It is the people that ultimately make a place feel like home.
And, as my neighbors prove every day, we have some characters here. Nice ones, too. With a lot of stories to tell. And, in true Southern tradition, everyone is on their porch ready for a chat.
Sure, there are always things you want to change about a city.
I could do without the gnats. And I never noticed how many horribly decorated cars there were. I mean, just the other week I saw "I love Kmart" stuck to someone's bumper.
But all in all, it's good to be back, even if I have missed out all these years, wasting my time searching for what was here all along.
So now I'm yard-saling to pick up those pieces of Tampa Bay — other people's pieces — to fill my new life. I'm looking for the characters and their stories. Ocean treasures and city hall secrets. I'm like the old guy in a huge Chevy van pulling up to your house, trying to get you to give away the patio set, even though it is not for sale. Or anywhere near the curb.
I don't want Jimmy Buffett's biography; I want yours.
And what better place to practice the art of journalism than one where neighbors gather on lawn chairs in front of their houses to talk?
So pull up a chair and let's get acquainted again, Tampa Bay.
And can you please pass the sweet tea?
This article appears in May 3-9, 2006.